Dirty Rotten Shame
by big tears
Summary: Olaf watches the Baudelaires. Violaf undertones. COMPLETE
1. Thought One

_-=-_

_It's a dirty rotten shame  
That when you're frivolous and strong  
It isn't youth, it's fearlessness  
That has been wasted on the young  
The cruel are in the cradle  
And the bishop's in the bag  
It's nothing but a dirty rotten shame_

--Elvis Costello, Dirty Rotten Shame

_-=-_

He stands still and silent as the grave, barely breathing as he watches the three children in the next room. His back is pressed flat against the paisley wallpaper, cheek resting on the red doorframe. He watches and waits.

They think they're so smart.

He knows they're planning something -- they always are, whispering to each other when they think no one else is around, carefully gathering resources with anxious pleas for help and nervous tics. They shut up the second they hear an unfamiliar sound, huddling together as though their Love will form an inpenetrable barrier. He tried Love once. Didn't like it at all -- it required too much giving. When he left the woman, he took everything back.

The oldest child, a girl of fourteen or fifteen -- he never paid attention -- was smiling hopefully at her siblings, as though she thought that good might win in the end. As though she were sure that everything was going to be absolutely fine.

She's pretty, he reasons, but not at all intellegent... If only she had been a member when the schism started, then perhaps he would be able to reason with her. Then she wouldn't be living a hell of a life, doing good and avoiding flames at all costs.

He wonders what her eyes would look like if they were reflecting fire. Pity she hadn't been there when her house had burned down. He might have been able to talk her into enjoying it.

The children stand up, holding hands like they might in a 60's domestic comedy, all looking as though they are about to brave the worst. That isn't entirely a lie. He has been called the worst on many occasions, and bowed gracefully every time.

He smiles as they walk out the door, headed, although they don't know it, to their doom.

What a dirty rotten shame.

_-=-_


	2. Thought Two

_-=-_

_I recall the good old days  
But thankfully, they've gone  
Now the ponies all are broken nags  
That stumble as they groan  
And throw the jockeys from their throne  
When there are pitches left to dodge  
And lions left to tame  
But it's nothing but a dirty rotten shame_

--Elvis Costello, Dirty Rotten Shame

_-=-_

He thinks about her sometimes, although she never knows it. The fact that he's after her siblings, alone, is enough to put her at unrest and keep her up all night. He knows -- he's watched her. Hair tumbling over her hands as she rests her face in their palms, shrouding the little Baudelaire girl in absolute shadow. The contrast between the dark curls laced through her fingers and the fair skin of her delicate arms brings about a certain incandescence. Even when thrown into the depths of despair, she's a picture of perfection.

A young girl that barely thinks to comb her hair -- let alone put on make-up and dress well -- achieving the thing women around the world strive for every day. How ironic.

He wonders if she knows about her beauty, if she has time to know. She spends all of her free time taking care of the two brats she carts around, quite as though she were their own haggard mother. Mature beyond comprehension for such an urchin. Much too pretty to be an urchin, as well... He wonders if she knows how well the light hits her face in the afternoon. 

From his encampment outside the barn, he hears three sets of footsteps. Whispers. He thinks of her whispering.

He watches their silhouettes cross the horizon from where he hides in the weeds; watches them crouching as low as possible. He wonders how long he'll give them before he starts to follow. Perhaps he should follow now.

The thrill of the chase is much to entrancing to resist.

_-=-_


	3. Thoughts Three and Four, in Unison

_-=-_

_Now I find life a millionaire  
That brags for rags and jewels  
A snarling pup is wild enough  
But as his anger proves  
He's left to sharpen useless tools  
That tear and graze and finer phrase  
But few are worth the name  
It's nothing but a dirty rotten shame_

Elvis Costello, Dirty Rotten Shame

_-=-_

His pulse quickens as he follows the three children through the night, silently stalking them as he has for the past several months. They do not hear his footsteps in the grass, old brown shoes meeting the ground and blades of grass tickling his bare ankles. They do not see his shadow stretching out across the empty fields, casting everything it touches into darkness. He's gaining on them, although they don't know it. They're too busy running from something they're sure they can conquer.

He wonders what she'll say when she finally notices the man behind them. Then again, what she says won't really matter. 

He doesn't want to touch her. He'd never show it, but he does have at least one moral bone in his body. No, any fingerprint he might leave on her would be defiling a work of art. Spray painting all over a series of Da Vinci's paintings would rack him with less guilt than laying a dirty hand on Violet Baudelaire. He did it once, of course, before he had grown to fully appreciate the simplicity of her attractive features. After that one time, he never forgave himself.

He's perhaps six yards behind them now, the one with glasses carrying the one with teeth and the object of his attention holding her brother's hand. _How like her,_ he thinks, with a rather wry smirk. Dangerous situations bring out panic in some people, anger in others, and love in few. The bespectacled one smiles hopefully at her.

For once, she doesn't smile back.

She heaves a sigh, shoulders sagging under the immense weight of keeping feelings to herself. She'd always been an open person, and if she didn't have anyone to talk to, her journal had been a source of comfort. But how was she supposed to unleash feelings of fear and resentment in a charred book of ashes, miles and miles away from where she now found herself? She couldn't think of relating anything to her poor brother, who already had quite enough to worry about. She couldn't tell him she wanted to give up _now_, when it they might have a chance to get away from the man who had been following them for who-knows-how-long. 

What will it matter if Count Olaf has their money in the end? It's only money; love of money is the root of all evil. Her parents told her so a million times, and she had taken that advice to heart. It seemed that they weren't really running for their lives after all: merely for their parents' estate.

She sighs again; he watches with interest, gradually quickening his pace. Five yards away, he guesses, still observing the silence of the three orphans. Four... three... Still as the grave, he continues to be an unknow presence. Two yards. He can hear the the children breathing, gasping for air as they all travel through the moonlight.

His respiratory system, however, is not so out of shape. He has had plenty of practice when it comes to running from things.

He's three feet away, traveling behind the people who can give him the one thing he wants more than anything else in the world. Very calmly, he reaches out one bony hand and grasps the arm of the orphan with glasses. The boy shrieks, the baby shrieks, and Violet Baudelaire turns around to find herself in the midst of an internal struggle.

_-=-_


	4. The Next Several Thoughts at Once

_-=-_

_It's a dirty rotten shame  
And that is not an idle boast  
When all your courage and your strength  
Will leave you as you need it most  
When there are lamps to dampen  
And cauliflowers to flip  
It's nothing but a dirty rotten shame_

Elvis Costello, Dirty Rotten Shame

The expression in her pale eyes is enough to send shivers down his spine, but they halt midway and turn into something of lesser importance. A crooked smile breaks like cold dawn across his face, and a familiar sort of emotion settles in his chest. He's won before, but never has victory been so sweet.

Her mouth hangs open, as though she's trying desperately to scream but can't make any words come out. She cannot threaten him, that ship sailed ages ago, back when she had a few people who were supposed to be on her side. People who were supposed to be helping, but turned out to be too cowardly to even consider standing up for three helpless children.

It's quite terrifying to be chased by a rather old man, who at least has assistance.

She watches in horror as the man grabs her brother and sister, who are both shocked to the point of silence. She watches as her brother wordlessly pleads with her to do something, _anything_, to save them. She wants to save them.

The smile does not vanish as he stares at her, looking very small compared to all her troubles. He sees her biting her bottom lip, he sees her trying to square her shoulders with courage. He sees the gears turning in her head, the pain she must be going through at his expense. The smile does not vanish.

She tries not to show how horrified she is as she looks up into the glassy eyes of Count Olaf, which have turned somewhat yellow since she has last seen him. They're gleaming as they always do when the end is drawing closer. It never used to unnerve her so -- perhaps because she had always kept hope until this point.

"Hello, Olaf," she says, little voice quivering ever so slightly.

"Hello, Violet," The sadistically twisted reply rings in her ears, full of mockery and avarice. She always thought the world to be a relatively healthy place until she met this man.

She knows what she wants to say, and what she wants to do. She wants Klaus and Sunny to be safe, to live happy lives, to always take care of each other and never have to run from someone ever again. She wants them to have that sort of life more than anything in the world. She could not live knowing that she had a chance to be taken in their place, and decided against it. But life with the Count... She had four -- nearly three -- more years until she came of age. Could she live that long with such an awful man? Could she stand him watching her, talking to her, ordering her about?

He enjoys her fight to keep her composure, as though a calm appearance will save her siblings' lives. He used to try to be brave, but decided it would be better if he gave up. It was much too hard for his liking.

She's surprised he isn't gloating. That's how he's spent his free time for as long as she's known him, and it's strange for him to remain silent for such a long period of time. She wishes he would start the conversation they're destined to have -- speaking of bravery and self-sacrifice. She knows both, he knows neither, but it's always much easier for a fool to start on a subject so important.

He doesn't say a word.

"I would like my brother and sister back, if you wouldn't mind," she says, the general politeness in her nature trying to settle this in a civilized manner before she has to use her pure desperation.

He laughs. Streams of giggles, sheer and torturous amusement stinging the cool night air. "Damn, you're just like your mother," he says, shaking his head. She knows this, of course. Many people have told her so -- but the way he says it, it becomes more of an insult than a compliment.

"Unfortunately, your mother had to learn that being nice is not it's own reward."

She swallows, the lump that has been building in her throat nearly succeeding in its struggle to close off all air. She doesn't know what to say. He's made it quite clear with that statement that she isn't going to come out alive.

She's going to be slaughtered.

"W-What do you want, Olaf?"

"Did I say I wanted something?" he asks, tightening his grip on the two orphans trapped within his arms.

They pause, both staring at each other.

"Release them, please," she tries again, a hint of her fear escaping and lacing her words very carefully. 

"No."

She knows why he's not running away, leaving her to cry about the loss of her brother and sister. She knows why he's not headed off to begin some dastardly plot. She knows, and she wishes that she didn't.

She wishes he wasn't waiting for her.

"If you let them go," she begins, the desperation coming out in full form and rattling every inch of her thought. "If -- If you let them go..."

He cocks his head to the side, the girl standing in front of him nearly breaking into sobs as she tries to say exactly what he wants to hear. He had a reason for his plan in the beginning -- it was the simplest. It was the simplest because she would have to give in if he threatened either one of the other Baudeliare Brats. But she had escaped the last time -- the last several times. Perhaps that was a part of the reason he admired her. But now... now she was giving up. 

As happy as he is to finally have the girl's fortune secured, he can't help but notice that she is looking rather tired. The dark circles under her eyes are finally beginning to show.

"Take_ me_." she finally manages to choke out, paling considerably as the command falls into the open.

"Alright."

_-=-_


	5. The End of Thinking in General

_-=-_

_ "Slump, and the world slumps with you. Push, and you push alone."   
-Laurence J. Peter _

She remembers that night with something like acceptance, she knows that nothing can be taken back once it is done. She remembers how he released her brother and sister, throwing them to the ground and shouting that if they moved before dawn, he'd have them shot. How he brought her back to his car where his associates were sleeping, kicked them out, and drove her to a ramshackle Victorian house in the middle of a charred field.

"Winning isn't everything," he had said, as they walked through the door. "and defeat is much more likely to happen."

She had cried for the remainder of that night, locked in a bedroom with nothing else to do. She cried for her siblings, for herself, for the fact that no one had ever been able to help the three of them. Finally, after several damp hours, she ran out of tears and fell asleep on the hardwood floor.

When she woke up the next morning, he had left. There was a note on the bathroom door saying that he had gone to pick up some groceries, that if she left he'd kill her, and to expect him around five o'clock.

She began counting minutes.

The next night, his friends arrived with "housewarming gifts". He had invited her to join them, but she was not about to venture into a room with a drunken Olaf. Accepting alcohol when underage didn't sound tempting, either. She could hear them from her room, laughing and cursing, shouting about nothing at all.

She stares at the ceiling, remembering how frightened she had been -- how frightened she is. It's the morning of her eighteenth birthday, and her wedding dress is hanging forlornly in the closet, next to a single wire hanger. She knows this day has been coming since she surrendered, but it's much more mind-numbing as it's actually happening than when she thought about it all those days and months and years ago.

There's a letter from Klaus on the night table -- their only means of communication, each note hand-delivered and censured by one of Olaf's comrades. This one came two nights ago, just as the angst truly began to seep into her thoughts.

_Dear Violet,_

I'm openly horrified at what you're about to do, although I try to put a brave  
face on for Sunny (she only grows more intellegent, which can get quite  
alarming sometimes). I remember the night you saved the both of us,  
giving up everything just so that we would be safe... Mother would be very  
proud -- Father, too.

I can't help but feel guilty when I consider how much we sacrificed to keep  
running, because our lives weren't really at stake. You realized this before  
I did, however, and I commend you for your sharp observation.  
If only we had done something differently...

The job is going quite well. The --------- ------ ----- is a nice place,  
and my boss -- although secretive and enigmatic -- treats me very kindly.

Sunny sends her love, and our prayers are with you.

Klaus

Downstairs, he's sitting in a recliner with a bottle of wine clasped between his bony fingers, his thoughts lingering on what a special day it is. The television news stations will show up at the church, no doubt. This is, after all, eighteen-year-old Violet Baudelaire -- heiress to the Baudelaire fortune. And she's marrying... a thespian. A thespian who happens to have no money of his own.

A fifty-four year old, poor, dirty thespian with an alcohol addiction, standing calmly next to the prettiest young girl in the world. This is certainly going to look peculiar.

He's never been one to care about other people's opinions, but he vaguely wonders if it'll bother _her_. Through his dulled senses, he wonders how she'll feel about the ceremony. Probably repulsed, he reasons, as she has no reason to find him appealing. He has the face of a god, but children rarely realize the blessings that are standing right in front of them.

_"You know there are kisses in wedding ceremonies, don't you, Violet?"_

"Well... yes."

"I've had one of my friends call **The Daily Punctilio**, they're sure to have a reporter there, so everything has to look convincing... if you know what I mean."

That conversation took place the night before, in one of the unoccupied rooms of the house. He knows she isn't looking forward to acting as though she's desperately in love, or the three weeks of their marriage that is to come before their divorce. He knows, because of the look on her face when he mentioned the kisses.

Yes, the young people are terribly ungrateful.

His tuxedo is sitting in his room, powder-blue with a white bow-tie -- something he picked out himself. He used to tell himself he'd never get married. He used to say that no matter what happened, he'd never find a woman good enough for him. Esme's alright, in the way that they have large amount of things in common, and she's attractive. Beatrice was alright, in the way that meant they were both so intelligent and had potential. But Violet... Violet exceedes everything.

They meet at the church before anyone else can arrive; he looking the picture of pride and greed -- she, pale and tragic. They're the only two in the chapel, having arrived even before the minister. She's standing near the podeum, staring blankly at her distorted reflection. He's somewhat behind her, smiling, resisting the temptation to put a hand on her shoulder.

He knows he can't comfort her.

"I can't tell you how happy you've made me," he says, the smile still painted across his face. "In just a few short hours I'll be in control of the Baudelaire fortune... Goddamn, this is wonderful."

"Please don't swear," she says. That's what her replies lean towards -- _Please don't swear. Please don't shout. Please don't look at me that way..._

The minister arrives, then the guests, then the reporters and TV cameras. The ceremony rolls along with precision, no detail neglected. She's a very good actress -- casually adopting a giddiness that can only be associated with one thing: Love. 

That's what this whole thing's been about, really. Love of money, love of power, love of fire. When they say "Love knows no bounds", they really mean it.

Tears are threatening to overload their ducts as the wedding continues, but she puts on a brave face and lets her insides knot up. The rings. The vows. The kiss.

_You may now kiss the bride..._

He kisses the bride, and she tries not to vomit. 

They do countless interviews after the thing is over and done with, both stammering ecstatically and using every ounce of their beings to pretend. She can't wait for the twenty-first day of their marriage, when she will "catch him with another woman and run out the door". She's supposed to say that she doesn't care a whit about her money -- that he can have it, as long as she gets a divorce immediately.

She'll get the divorce immediately, then set off to find her brother and sister. He's even letting her take the car, and one-hundred dollars for gas.

Her outside life will be rebuilt quite easily, brick upon brick upon brick. But her mind -- the traumatized thoughts of Violet Baudelaire -- will never be the same. She'll get a psychiatrist, she decides upon entering the reception area. Yes, a psychiatrist.

He smiles as the camera snaps photographs, holding Violet's slender hand in his own. His thoughts, however, are not on corruption or perversion.

They are, quite simply, on money.

_-=-_


End file.
